It stood on a slight rise, a massive, two-story mansion of light-brown stone and bow windows. White Greek columns rose beneath the second-floor balcony that sheltered the front entrance. Two expansive wings jutted forward from each side of the mansion.
He continued into the embrace of those wings, circling the central fountain where ornamental elephants spouted arcing streams of water from their trunks. Two more uniformed guards eyed him from the steps of the entrance as he drove by, continuing past the six-bay garage of the far wing, and into the parking area beyond it. He got out and fetched the duffle bag from the back seat. Then walked back along a flower-bordered sidewalk to the waiting guards.
Lasher sized them up. He always sized up the competition. One dark-haired, one blond, both hard looking, all business. Probably Russian—it would fit what he suspected about Trammel. Without a word, the blond guard extended his hand, snapping his fingers for the duffle, while the other stepped forward to search him. He surrendered the bag and raised his arms to comply.
The guy with the duffle didn’t search it—probably ordered by Trammel not to look inside, yet still taking no chances that Lasher might have hidden a weapon there. Of course, he knew better than to bring one here—not that he would need any. The blond guy had his hands occupied with the bag instead of putting it down. His dark-haired partner bent in front of him to pat down his legs, instead of doing it from behind. Good God. Taking out these losers would be a piece of cake.
“What are you smiling at?” the blond guy snarled.
Lasher broadened his grin. “I’m thinking Mr. Trammel needs to hire better security, Ivan.”
The guy stiffened, dropped the duffle, stepped forward. The one searching him straightened fast and raised a hand to his partner. Then turned to glare at Lasher.
“Lucky Mr. Trammel wants to see you, or you get your smart ass kicked.”
Lasher sneered. “You ever want to try, I’ll give you a rain check—Boris.”
The dark-haired guard’s lips tightened. He turned and nudged his sour-faced partner toward the huge double doors. Lasher followed them in.
Then stopped in his tracks.
Standing between twin sets of thick pillars inside the entrance, his eyes slowly scanned the room. It was a beige-marble vault that rose to a domed ceiling. A spectacular double staircase, also marble, swept majestically in twin, mirroring curves to meet on the second floor. There a balcony encircled the room overhead, and its enormous, gold-and-crystal chandelier.
“What you waiting for, smartass?”
The blond guy with the duffle stood between the staircases. Lasher followed him, his clicking steps resounding off the polished marble. He caught glimpses into large, opulent rooms branching off the foyer, then passed through an arched stone passageway. He was in a museum-like drawing room, adorned with fancy upholstered couches and huge paintings of ancient Roman scenes. The guards led him into another room beyond.
2
It was a bright solarium, smaller but elegant. At its far end, a semi-circle of tall windows bowed outward, presenting a panoramic view of the rear grounds.
Avery Trammel stood there, taking in the view, hands clasped behind him.
“Sir,” the dark-haired guard said, “your visitor is arrived.”
Trammel didn’t turn. “Bring his bag upstairs and leave it outside my office door. Then return to your stations.”
“Yes, sir.” The pair left. Lasher remained near the room’s entrance.
“Join me,” Trammel said finally.
Lasher approached and stopped beside him. The billionaire stood tall, slim, and erect. He wore a gray cardigan sweater, unbuttoned, over a gray silk shirt and gray slacks—the tones and shades all matched perfectly.
It was only the third time he had been in the man’s presence. On the first occasion, four years earlier, they had met discreetly in a hotel room in Georgetown. That was when he had been hired and put on retainer. On the second, it was in the secret townhouse condo Trammel owned near Capitol Hill. A lot of cash had changed hands on that occasion—a bonus for a tricky bit of wetwork.
He followed Trammel’s gaze out across acres of meticulously landscaped lawn.
To one side, a small greenhouse. Opposite, an enclosed tennis court. About a hundred meters off, a pond. The afternoon sun revealed orange flickers of koi moving beneath its green surface. In the middle of the pond, a gazebo, bedecked with jaunty floral baskets, perched on a tiny island and linked to the lawn by a small stone bridge.
Trammel remained silent.
“Your home—it’s really spectacular, Mr. Trammel,” Lasher ventured.
The man turned slowly to face him. Dark brows hooded deep-set, intense, serpentine eyes, whose color reminded him of chips of ice. He had a strong nose above the thin scar of his lips. The tanned skin of his face bore surprisingly few lines for his sixty-four years. The main sign of his age was a hairline that had receded to expose a high, broad forehead, leaving a thatch of white hair. The man exuded an aura of intelligence, power, and danger. Though Lasher knew, abstractly, that he could kill this guy with his bare hands, he always felt uneasy under that unwavering gaze.
“It impresses you, then, Mr. Lasher?”
He nodded. “I’ve seen some grand homes, but never anything to match this.” He offered a smile. “You must really enjoy living here.”
Trammel’s unblinking eyes held him. Like a cobra’s, he thought.
“Do you think that, Mr. Lasher?”
He felt his smile evaporate. “Well . . . I just thought—”
“Do you know what all this really is?” Not breaking eye contact, Trammel swept his arm around grandly, to include the house and the grounds. Lasher caught a flash of something silver in the man’s hand.
“I’m . . . not exactly sure what you mean, sir.”
The billionaire’s lips formed a slow, tight smile that remained a stranger to his eyes.
“Personally, it is a symbol. Practically, it is but a means to an end.”
He turned away, moving into the room.
Unsure of what to do or say, Lasher followed.
“From a practical standpoint,” Trammel continued, “this estate is, first and foremost, the headquarters for my work. While I maintain offices in many places, I control my interests from here. As for residences, there is the Capitol Hill condominium where we last met. Undoubtedly you have done enough homework to know of our apartment at the Watergate. Julia prefers it to this more isolated home, because its location better fulfills her many social and professional requirements. And we have other residences, here and abroad, to meet our respective needs for privacy or entertaining when traveling.”
He continued back into the drawing room. Lasher followed, surprised at Trammel’s apparent eagerness to talk so personally.
“A second practical purpose this home serves is to project the appropriate image to various individuals and groups.” Trammel didn’t elaborate, leaving Lasher to infer the obvious.
“What about the other thing you mentioned—the personal symbol?”
Trammel halted abruptly, turned slowly. Fixed him with that hooded, intense stare.
“I referred to it as ‘personal’ for good reason, Mr. Lasher.”
Lasher fought the urge to swallow.
Trammel turned and stopped at a door within the passageway. He opened it and led him into a mahogany-paneled elevator.
They emerged on the second floor balcony. Trammel led him around to the corridor that ran above the garage. Its high walls displayed dozens of photos: Trammel posing with presidents, kings, foreign leaders, politicians, and—usually in the company of his actress wife, Julia Haight—A-list movie stars and celebrities.
Halfway down the hallway, they entered a spacious, utilitarian office. Four individuals looked up from their desks and smiled nervously at the sight of their boss. A middle-aged receptionist rose as he entered.
“You have had five calls, sir. Two from the New York office, one from Mr. Boyce in Be
rmuda—”
Trammel waved dismissively. “I shall return the calls after meeting with this gentleman.”
He continued past her to an inner door sporting an electronic touchpad lock. Lasher’s duffle rested on the floor nearby. He bent to hoist it while his host tapped in the combination.
3
Inside, Lasher found himself in a huge, beautifully appointed executive suite of dark paneled walls, built-in bookcases, and Oriental carpets.
His employer moved behind his massive desk, where he placed the silver object he’d been carrying. Then eased himself into his high-backed leather chair.
He gestured toward the bag in Lasher’s grip.
“I gather you have everything in there?”
“All here, sir.”
“Show me.” He tapped his desktop.
Approaching, Lasher noticed that the silver item on the desk was an old watch. Trammel spun it absently with his forefinger while Lasher reached into the bag and began to arrange its contents on the desk, explaining each item as he went. Finally, he settled into the guest chair and held Trammel’s eyes.
“Trust me, sir—that’s everything he had.”
“Can we be certain he did not communicate with anyone else?”
Lasher explained all the steps he had taken to be sure about that.
“I’ve gone the extra mile to cover our tracks,” he added. “This morning I called Wasserman’s mobile phone company, pretending to be him. I cancelled his account, saying he had moved, and asked that his final bill be sent to a post office box I maintain under a secure alias. I’ll pay that bill with a money order when it comes in. That way, no record of his final month’s calls will show up at his apartment to raise any questions.”
Trammel lifted a brow. “I would not have thought of that. I am impressed, Mr. Lasher. What about his emails?”
“The only relevant one was his very last message, which he sent just before I arrived there, unfortunately. It was to some people he works with.”
“At the Center for Advocacy Profiles?”
“Yes. It was brief. He only said he was onto something big concerning the Currents Foundation, and that he’d tell them all about it at their next weekly meeting.”
Trammel stopped spinning the watch.
“He mentioned Currents, then?”
“Yes. But no specifics at all. They know nothing. So you shouldn’t worry.”
“Shouldn’t I? That hint may arouse their curiosity to continue inquiries.”
“Well, if it becomes a problem, I can always deal with it.”
“I shall let you know, Mr. Lasher. I cannot afford to leave any loose ends.”
He stood abruptly, indicating the meeting was over. But Lasher remained seated.
“Before I go, sir, there’s that other loose end out there. Dylan Hunter. Or whoever he really is.”
“What about him?”
“You asked me to follow and find out about him. And as I told you, I found a ghost. A newspaper reporter with a fake name and no traceable background. But with the kind of skills you find only in trained operators. In guys like me. We know from the newspapers that he killed a criminal hand-to-hand last Christmas. And we know he’s a trouble-maker who targets prominent people. People like you.”
Trammel said nothing, but sat again. He scooped up the watch and began to roll it absently in his palm. It was an old relic, unlike anything Lasher could imagine a billionaire would want. Obviously it meant something to him, but Lasher suppressed the urge to ask about it.
Lasher went on. “You told me he poses a much greater threat to your interests than you had imagined. You hired me to protect those interests. Well, if you want me to do that, it would help me to know exactly what kind of threat he poses.”
For a moment, the billionaire remained still, a dark, unmoving figure. Then he leaned forward slowly. Placed the watch down carefully. Flattened his palms on the desktop.
“It is not your business to know,” he hissed.
Lasher was not easily intimidated, but it took him a few seconds to respond.
“Sir, if I know what he’s after, maybe I can stop him. But all I really know about him comes from the articles he publishes in the Inquirer. His pieces last year about the vigilante crime spree. And the recent ones about CarboNot. He listed your name as one of the CarboNot investors. That’s it, isn’t it?”
Trammel eased back into the cushioned black leather chair and positioned his hands on its arms. The king on his throne.
“Only in part. From what you discovered about the man’s abilities, I also have begun to wonder if he might have been involved in recent events.”
“Which ones?”
“The recent wave of bombings—at CarboNot Industries and several other sites. The destruction of my plane at Dulles. The assassination of Senator Conn.”
“But I thought that terrorist group—you know—”
“WildJustice.”
“Yeah, them. I thought they were responsible.”
“That is the official conclusion. Their leader, Zachariah Boggs, reputedly was a genius, and it now has been confirmed that he was the so-called ‘Technobomber’ of years ago. However, these recent crimes involved much more than bombs.”
“Such as?”
“Such as planting bugging devices, intercepting and redirecting email and phone communications, interference with financial transactions. It was impressively technical, sophisticated, well-coordinated—and I imagine beyond the capabilities even of a supposed genius like Boggs.”
Lasher nodded slowly. “But not beyond the capabilities of a highly trained special operator.”
“That thought crossed my mind.” Trammel sighed. “But that remains mere speculation. As you say, all direct evidence points to Boggs and his group. Nor can I imagine why this ‘Dylan Hunter,’ whoever he is, would be motivated to commit risky, violent acts against CarboNot and its investors. Including me.”
“Still, with so much at stake, why take chances? I can arrange an ‘accident’ for him, too.”
Trammel’s eyes became piercing, hawk-like.
“Absolutely not! Given his public prominence, that would provoke too much scrutiny. And we—I cannot afford that. Besides, we already have quite enough on our respective plates.”
“With all respect, sir, I think that’s a mistake. He already knows a lot about you.”
“Very little, actually. After further consideration, I have concluded Mr. Hunter probably poses a less immediate threat than I had thought.”
Lasher shook his head. “Look, I have a sense about the guy. He’s a pit bull. Once he’s after you, he won’t let go.”
“You may be right. So, I shall not rule anything out. Action against him may well become necessary. But later—and only as a last resort.”
“But, sir, I—”
Trammel raised a hand. “Mr. Lasher, I have made clear to you that we must focus on more pressing threats. You are to steer clear of Mr. Hunter. Is that understood?”
Lasher fought to hold his anger in check. He shrugged casually, forcing a smile. “Sure. It’s your call.”
“Indeed it is,” Trammel said, each word spaced and stressed. He stood again. “And now, if you will please excuse me.” He pressed a button on his desk phone. “Marnie, would you please escort my visitor out?”
Lasher rose, nodded curtly, and left. The receptionist led him back to the foyer. He trotted down the stairs and out, past the blond guard he had met earlier. They exchanged profane insults as Lasher walked toward his parked car.
But once out of earshot, he muttered to himself:
“We’ll see about that, you old son of a bitch.”
SIX
It was an intersection on the western outskirts of Baltimore, with a corner gas station and an attached building that housed a sub sandwich shop, a bodega, and a check-cashing store. Diagonally across the intersection stood a Methodist church, and directly across from that a recreational park with several baseball fields. The
local elementary school was a half-mile down the highway.
It all looked serene, perfectly normal to any driver passing by or stopping to fill up his tank. But his homework revealed that the gas station and strip plaza had been taken over two years earlier by Reginald Dixon’s gang, “Da Lawn Boyz”—named after the nearby Woodlawn area. Not far from Interstate 70, and with a steady flow of traffic and customers, it was the perfect headquarters for their drug-distribution operation.
Driving a nondescript Ford junker, Hunter had followed Dixon and the girlfriend who picked him up at Jessup Correctional Institution. Now he watched their red Camaro turn right, pulling into the gas station. The pumps and store entrance faced the cross street that ran perpendicular to the one he was on.
Hunter drifted to the intersection and halted at the traffic light. The Camaro had stopped near the store entrance. Dixon and the girl emerged into a waiting cluster of eight young men wearing denim and leather over t-shirts and sneakers. After hugs, high-fives, and fist-bumps, four of them followed the couple inside. The others took watchful positions around the perimeter of the store.
The light changed. Hunter turned right onto the cross street and drove slowly past the entrance. Signs in the windows and above the glass door advertised fried chicken, Philly steaks, lottery tickets, and an ATM.
He took another immediate right, onto the narrow, seedy side street that ran like an alleyway behind the gas station and the strip mall. A Dumpster pressed close to the gas station’s rear wall, overflowing with trash. A few feet farther along was the station’s rear door, closed and presumably locked. Beyond that, a fringe of debris-strewn weeds ran along the cinder-block rear wall of the stores.
To his left, on the opposite side of the street from the stores, stood a pair of vacant, two-story eyesores. Both boarded-up dumps displayed “No Trespassing” signs. An inexplicable mound of dirt was heaped in the yard between them.
The side street petered out into a dead end. He turned around and came back. This was no place to leave his car: too conspicuous, and only one way out.
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